Chapter XI #3
Through all his joy, however, something troubling was moving in the back of his mind: the notion that perhaps he had discovered a way to compromise her principles.
His grip tightened on the reins at this thought.
Darcy would never accuse her of acting with deliberate calculation—he knew enough about her to know better than that.
However, he could not shake the thought that perhaps she had been influenced by the situation with her sister.
That she had warmed to him was beyond question—even the rankest dullard could see her increased interest, improved civility, and dare he even say the warmth that now suffused her when she greeted him.
Having experienced the opposite and not having had the wit to see it for what it was, Darcy now understood the difference.
Thus, Darcy’s concern was not that she felt nothing for him, but that circumstances had forced her hand.
It would have been better had Darcy been at liberty to court her, show her the man he could be, properly win her affection.
It was also true his assistance was more easily offered with an engagement in hand.
For a moment, his thoughts turned to Wickham, distasteful though the subject was.
Darcy had not yet decided what he would do about his erstwhile friend, and Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Bennet would have some say in what became of him.
What was incontrovertible was that Wickham would make an exceedingly poor husband.
With the straits the girl now found herself in, the only recourse was for her to marry to restore her reputation.
In uniting her with Wickham, however, a life of misery tied to a man such as he would be the price she must pay.
There were other options, of course, options that would require a substantial sum of money and another man willing to overlook her indiscretion.
Darcy could not imagine the price would exceed the amount it would take to bribe Wickham to marry her.
If that was so, would the girl not be better situated if she were married to a decent man?
She would not keep her status as a gentlewoman, but by running away with Wickham, she had already forfeited that status.
As Darcy crested the rise and the house appeared before him, he pushed away the thought, though he made a mental note to discuss it later with Mr. Gardiner. Instead, he turned his attention back to a scene he had witnessed many times.
The house stood in the sunlight, a tall and proud structure of white stone and gleaming windows.
Darcy thought back to Miss Bennet’s comment about Mr. Collins’s knowledge of the exact number of windows at Rosings Park, and he could not stifle a laugh.
Darcy neither knew nor cared how many windows graced his house.
It was not the structure or its fineness or extent that mattered—it was the home it provided for his family, the generations of diligent Darcys who had made it possible, and what the house represented.
Wickham had never quite seen that. All his life, he had coveted what he did not have, railing against fate for his lineage, the son of a steward who, though he had been an excellent man, had not been wealthy or prominent.
The tragedy of George Wickham was not his covetousness, his callous disregard for others, or his inability to be content with what he had.
It was that he had never understood that such great privilege also brought immense responsibility.
Wickham had only ever seen the benefits of wealth.
The other tragedy was, of course, how Darcy’s father had provided for Wickham.
A bequest of one thousand pounds was no insignificant sum—with the extra three thousand pounds Darcy had offered him because he would not profit from the living, a prudent man could have lived in security or laid the groundwork to become something more than he was.
Darcy considered Mr. Gardiner, an industrious man who had cut short his holiday because his business would not allow him so much time away.
Though he could not be certain, Darcy expected that Mr. Gardiner had not started his enterprise with much more than four thousand pounds.
And yet, he had built a prosperous business that sufficed to provide for his family and allow him to take his wife and niece on a tour to the north.
The differences between the two men were striking—one had used what he had to build a good life for his family, the other had wasted it all and lusted for more.
The moment passed, and Darcy urged his horse into a canter again, knowing that time was of the essence. As he rode, he pondered a few truths, knowing he could carry them throughout the ordeal with Wickham, and into the rest of his life.
A man’s worth was not determined by birth, wealth, or any other such worldly measurement. Darcy had forgotten that for a time—it was a lesson he would not forget again.
As for his suspicions about Miss Bennet, he knew it was not the time to raise such a subject with her.
There may never be a time. But Darcy tucked the thought away.
Perhaps she would convince him that his fears were groundless.
But if the time came when he believed otherwise, he would not hold her to a promise made under duress.